


1/730

by dazedbby



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Jealous Ian Gallagher, M/M, Post-Endgame, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 03:52:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazedbby/pseuds/dazedbby
Summary: picks up during the endgame kiss :-)





	1/730

**Author's Note:**

> a few lines in here are stolen from @and_i_take_it because i loved her endgame extension so much & couldn't help but include some of it into my own fantasy!

It was at this moment Ian realized he had never forgotten the taste of Mickey Milkovich. It was as if the familiar pillowy feel, soft and inviting, was lingering ever since Ian watched his one true love drive past border patrol in a shitty station wagon. And _god_ had he fucking missed him.

So it took everything to not devour Mickey’s lips entirely - to not get as close to him as physically possible. Instead, Ian wanted the kiss to say everything he couldn’t say with words. He wanted Mickey to feel Ian’s love down to his bones, in the cells of his skin. This kiss wasn’t another leaving-in-the-morning act of passion, it was gentle and affirming and everything Ian wished he could’ve been for Mickey. It was, to be perfectly honest, overwhelming.

The tears welling in Ian’s eyes might have broken free right then had it not been for the subtle hum coming from Mickey’s mouth. He felt the lips beneath him curling at the ends, breaking into an untimely grin...Wait, was this smug asshole really _laughing_ right now? Ian drew back into his previously affirmed position, wide eyes scanning the face of a man beneath him who was now fledged in full-blown giggles.

“What?” Ian chuckled, amused by the soft creases forming around his lover’s cheeks. It occurred to him that there is nothing more beautiful than a smiling Mickey Milkovich.

Mickey swiped a knuckle across his bottom lip, giggles fading into a warm grin. “You tryna jack my look, Gallagher?”

Ian scoffed, dropping his head a little to hide the dumb smile and flushed cheeks Mickey’s words never failed to produce. Usually he would’ve come up with a witty comeback, maybe even provoked Mick a little, but the reality of trailing fingertips along his scalp sent Ian’s thoughts into a stupid, gay whirlwind.

“I, uh,” Ian started, “I was gonna run to Mexico. Try and find you.”

Mickey’s gentle combing came to a pause as his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. He clearly hadn’t expected that. “Good thing you didn’t,” Mickey quietly managed.

“Good thing,” Ian agreed. He grinned, shifting into a sitting position with legs intertwined across from his new cellmate. The harsh fluorescent light painted Mickey’s face with perfect precision: little crinkles engraved on both temples and inky eyelashes shielding the most beautiful color anyone has ever seen. Ian felt a heat rise in his cheeks.

“So...gay jesus, huh?” Mickey met Ian’s obvious stare. There was that fucking contagious smirk again.

Ian’s cheeks went from warm to _really_ warm. “Fuck…” he muttered, “You saw that shit?”

“Yeah, man.” Mickey’s voice was easy and disarming. “Try watching the news without seeing your preaching ass everywhere, ‘s impossible.” He smiled softly, but Ian couldn’t return the favor. It was embarrassing - letting the inner-Monica fuck everything up yet again.

Mickey knew that look. “Been worried about you,” his voice became solemn, tatted fingers lacing with Ian’s hand and thumbing over his skin. “That’s not you, Ian.”

Ian nodded slightly, easing into the gentle touch. After all this time of _him_ being the asshole, _him_ constantly fucking up, and here’s Mickey, less than two minutes in, doing all the comforting. It was almost comical how much Ian Gallagher didn’t deserve this man.

“After you left,” Ian started, “things got pretty bad. Monica died, stopped taking my meds…” He scoffed despite himself. “Basically pissed away my life for a fucking social movement I couldn’t even control.”

 _I have my shit together, Mick!_ The phrase replayed in Mickey’s mind and his stomach turned to jelly. Ian had seemed so sure; so perfectly content with the new life he’d apparently built for himself. But that wasn’t the worst part.

“What about the, uh,” Mickey felt for the bridge of his nose, an angry tick. “The boyfriend?”

“Trevor?” Ian scoffed, green eyes shooting upwards. He hadn’t thought about that name in months. “Left a long time ago.”

Mickey’s hand now made its way to the seams of a yellow jumpsuit, fiddling wordlessly as Ian realized he hadn’t made a dent on the explanation Mickey deserved. The black-haired ginger drew in a sharp breath.

“He could never come _close_ to you, Mick,” Ian picked up, catching the ease in Mickey’s expression after hearing those words. “Didn’t really give a shit about me anyway, now that I think about it.” Ian’s voice hitched matter-of-factly. He never really bothered to reflect over the blur of that relationship until now. “When the gay jesus thing actually became real, he got so caught up in the campaigning or whatever...never actually cared that I was losing my shit.”

Mickey remembers the first time Ian lost his shit. He remembers the bubbly teenager he knew fading into a total stranger; the lifeless expression as he piled suitcases all around the house or handed Mickey a wad of cash from a porno gig the night before.

“How ‘bout the Gallaghers, huh? Thought you guys always looked out for each other.”

“Nah, Fiona tried but..” Ian shrugged slightly, eyes glued to his own fidgeting hands. “It can be kinda impossible to get through to me when I’m like that. Can’t blame ‘em for giving up eventually.”

Mickey noticed the returning remorse in Ian’s demeanor. “Hey, man,” he placed a stable hand on Ian’s knee and began to stroke the yellow fabric. “Not your fault you’re sick, you know? You can’t control how you act, that’s like, the whole gist of the fuckin’ disease.”

Ian lifted his view to find a face he knew all too well: Mickey’s furrowed brows, wandering eyes surveying over and over again to check Ian’s doubtful wellbeing.

And he felt like the luckiest man alive.

During the unforgiving gaps in their relationship, this face was one of the many things Ian forced his mind to abandon. Ian’s selfless, loving, passionate ex-boyfriend became _Mickey Milkovich_ : the dirty, abusive southside thug; crazy and unpredictable and everything the _old_ Ian would fall for. As a matter of fact, Ian can recall the exact image he would project to himself whenever an aching remembrance of Mickey crept into mind: the bloodied, whiskey-swigging figure swaggering into the distance as Ian cried his first tears of heartache into the dirt. After months of persistent self-convincing, _his_ Mickey, along with that undeniable chemistry between the two, was but a distant memory.

So now, being back in Mickey’s undeniably real presence, Ian’s crowded conscience finally felt...pure. Himself.

The grinning man inched closer to his cellmate’s territory on the mattress, but not without taking a few seconds to carefully study Mickey’s faint freckles for what seemed like the billionth time that day. “Yeah, Mick,” Ian took the stable freckled hand into his own. “Yeah, I know. Just took it _really_ fucking far this time.”

“Yeah, well, things haven’t been all fuckin’ sandals and tequila below the border either, if it makes you feel better.” Mickey offered with a lighthearted chuckle.

Ian’s expression turned uneasy. “What do you mean?”

Mickey rolled his left sleeve up to his shoulder, revealing a little angel with bold text orbiting its head.

Ian sounded out each syllable from the muddled font. “Car-tel de Jua-rez…?” _Fuck._ Processing his surroundings had steered Ian’s priorities completely awry, and he had forgotten to ask about Mickey’s opening statement. And now that the words sunk in...it made no sense. Last time they saw each other, Mickey had his sights set on a wholesome life in Mexico. How could he go from picturing them on the beach to getting a fucking pledge on left bicep?

“It’s a cartel tag,” Mickey explained with indifference. “S’posed to prove loyalty or some shit... Personally I would’ve preferred something a little cooler than a fucking baby, but it’s not like I was about to complain-”

“Why, Mickey?” Ian’s serious tone interrupted. “I mean, what happened to the beach; all that shit?”

Mickey looked away, scoffing a little like the answer was obvious. “Your little last-minute decision wasn’t so easy to process, ya know. Needed _something_ else to think about.”

All of Ian’s doubts the past two years had come to fruition. He began to picture Mickey in his fullest detail, alone in a shitty Mexican apartment with no one to confide in after having his heart shattered. No boyfriend, no brothers, not even a fucking cellmate. Meanwhile, Ian was back at home with his entire family, and boyfriend, like nothing ever happened. He felt a lump rise into his throat.

“Plus, turns out finding cash in Mexico wasn’t so easy after all. Sellin’ drugs is one of the only things I know how to do, so…”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” Ian barely managed. His voice broke mid-sentence, and the welling tears became plainly obvious.

“Stop,” Mickey ordered softly, reaching over to take Ian’s stubble into his hand. His fingertips trailed the man’s neck up to his cheek, now nearly wet with tears. “Seriously, cut it out, man. It’s okay.”

Ian laughed at that. “It’s not okay, Mick. I led you on for like three days, made you ditch your friend, then decided to have a change of heart like twenty yards away from the fuckin’ border.” Ian was trying to make a point, but was met only with a small grin.

“I mean...I was gonna ditch him anyway, so.”

Ian felt the corners of his mouth pull upwards, but bit it down and shook his head slightly.  “Seriously,” He regressed, “How can you not hate me for that?”

Mickey worked his hand up to Ian’s hair and begin sifting through curls. Ian knew the answer. He was always aware of Mickey’s unconditional love, even if undeserved. Where Ian was erratic and unstable, always falling victim to their undesirable circumstances, Mickey was confident. With enough time to reflect behind bars, the love between them was something so blatantly obvious.

“Beats me.” He shrugged, falling back into his original position up against their bed’s so-called headboard (the wall). Ian smiled to himself. Only Mickey Milkovich could be this goddamn easy in a confrontational moment. He _knew_ Ian was suffering without him.

“What was it like, then?” After a comforting pause, Ian wiped his eyes and re-engaged with boyish curiosity.

“What?”

“Working for a cartel,” Ian clarified. “Fiona used to be really into that stuff, made us watch a bunch of movies about it when we were little.”

The dimple on Mickey’s left cheek (Ian’s personal favorite) grew wider, amused with such a jovial question. “It was alright; nothing too different from the fuckin’ southside, man.”

Ian grinned. He could picture a slightly matured version of Mickey’s once menacing reputation on the southside. As a closeted 15-year-old, watching the roughed-up younger Milkovich wreaking havoc with his brothers sent the redhead’s heart at a million beats per minute. He may have been a thug, but _man_ was he beautiful, even then.

“Sicarios were fucking insane though - the guys I worked under,” Mickey explained. “Watched em break a kid’s legs just for standing there during a run.”

Ian’s eyes doubled in size, his easy expression turned appalled. “Legs?” He repeated, emphasizing the plurality.

Mickey only nodded, drinking in Ian’s reaction. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something relieving in the way his ex-boyfriend now carried himself: something genuine, human.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. assholes got what was coming, anyway.” Mickey remarked with a hint of amusement.

Ian paused, concerned. He didn’t mean...did he?

“What do you mean?”

Mickey averted the cautious glare knowingly and swiped a knuckle across his bottom lip.

“Mickey…” Ian confronted before he could speak. “You ratted them out?”

“I told you I rolled on the cartel-”

“Yeah, and I thought that meant you just turned yourself in, not gave up the whole operation to the feds.” Ian’s voice raised, not a lot, but enough to notice.

“Not the whole operation,” Mickey assured, unnerved. “Only one of them. Enough to do some damage but…”

“But what, Mick?” Ian’s hands now found the back of his neck, straining and nervous. “You don’t think a legitimate Mexican cartel would want some kind of payback?”

Mickey’s head shook to himself with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. He had prepared for this.

But Ian wouldn’t give him one window to respond. “You know they send people into prisons to kill snitches, right?” Ian continued. “Plus they have insiders everywhere - probably one in this fucking cell block, Mickey.”

“They don’t have shit,” Mickey stated calmly. “Mexican feds might take a bribe, but I ratted to the DEA, and America’s way too fuckin’ pretentious for that shit. No one’s gonna find out where I am.”

The billions of hypotheticals rushing through Ian’s mind halted at Mickey’s secure gaze. Maybe he was right, but that wasn’t gonna stop Ian from being careful as hell. There’s absolutely no way he was letting Mickey go after everything.

“What if they do?”

Mickey shrugged, “Guess gay jesus will just have to protect me, right?”

A smile grew across Ian’s cheeks. “Fuck off.” He laughed, falling back into his lover’s disarming trance. It didn’t help that Mickey still looked insanely good, and Ian suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to feel what he felt that night on the docks. Mickey was speaking before he had the chance to act on it.

“Got me some friends in here, too, man. Just wait til I introduce you, those fuckers won’t let anything happen to us.”

“Yeah?” Ian couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. It was stupid - Ian knew his boyfriend would manage a reputation with his previous time at county correctional - but the thought of Mickey getting close with any other guy released an unsettling chill. It also conveniently amplified the pulsing sensations to feel Mickey underneath him. “What kinds of friends?”

Mickey rolled his eyes subtly, grinning at his lover’s intentional suggestion. “What, you think I can’t make normal friends?”

“It’s not that,” Ian hummed, crawling forward until Mickey was laying down and their faces were inches apart. “I just know what I would do if I was one of them.”

Mickey’s eyes lovingly raked over the features in front of him, and Ian returned the favor by pressing his body downwards as much as possible. With one swift motion, Ian’s lips were trailing Mickey’s collarbone with gentle nips and kisses.

That’s when a sharp buzz invaded the cell. Panicked, Ian jerked upwards to face the door, which Mickey found hilarious.

The snickering inmate lightly slapped Ian’s cheek, urging him to sit up.

“Lunch time, Gallagher."


End file.
